


Quick and Gritty

by wanderlustmind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drugs, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:13:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustmind/pseuds/wanderlustmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John discovers Sherlock's secret stash of cocaine. Enraged and hurt, he decides to see for himself why Sherlock can't get enough of the stuff. Established Sherlock/John relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Truth and Lies

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't quite decided how long this will be yet. It could work as a stand alone, I suppose, but don't hesitate to let me know if you would like to read more. Also, here be drugs and drug use, profanity, sexual situations, and angst.

_It_  was lying there—balanced precariously on the porcelain bathroom sink.

Sherlock would be disappointed. John could almost picture the raised eyebrow on his otherwise emotionless face, daring him to  _observe_  instead of just seeing.

Why the world's only consulting detective had such high hopes for John, he had no idea, because right now all he could think of, strange enough, the only scene playing out in his mind was that night—all those months ago, when DI Lestrade was raiding 221B Baker Street. "I'm clean now," Sherlock had insisted, proving his point by showing off the nicotine patch on his arm.

As if a nicotine patch would quell this urge, when Sherlock regularly used  _three_  so he wouldn't have to smoke a cigarette.

But John, he had accepted the seemingly truthful confession as readily as he'd rushed in to defend Sherlock's lack of a drug habit.

But they'd never talked about it. Maybe that was John's fault.

He'd had plenty of chances, after they lay spent in each other's arms at night, those rare occasions between cases when they had all the time to just relax and listen to each other's breathing. John would always ghost his fingertips along the man's fine pale skin, exposed and practically glowing in the moonlight. He'd trace every scar and caress every curve of soft sinew and jutting bone.

Of course he'd seen the track marks, tiny blemishes all but invisible along the crook of his arms. Once, just once, Sherlock had started in a soft whispered, "John," but he seemed so out of sorts, off balance—as he always was when he was about to divulge forth some illogical, emotional part of himself. John cursed himself for a fool, now, but then John had just smiled, placating, and pressed their lips together, softly, murmuring "I trust you," and that was the end it.

"I'm clean," he'd said to Lestrade. Why should John have trusted such a ridiculous statement? The man who claimed to pickpocket from the DI when he was being annoying! What was just another lie from a  _sociopath_?

John angrily ran his fingers through his hair. He loved the man. God, he really did, and he dreaded the upcoming conversation he'd have to have with Sherlock, more than anything. Harry... she got hostile and defensive when her excessive drinking was mentioned, and no matter how hard John tried, he was never  _really_  able to get through to her. What luck did he have in getting through to a man such as Sherlock? Would he use his irrefutable logic and deny everything? His razor sharp wit to lash out at John? Would he just ignore it, ignore John altogether?

What else had his flat mate—no, he'd stopped being just his flat mate months ago, Sherlock Holmes was now his  _lover_ —lied to him about? God, how did the man who spent his time hunting criminals even get cocaine? John's face flushed with anger and shame, remembering all the times Sherlock had been inside him,  _come_  inside him, without any once of protection. What if he _caught_  something?

All the possibilities stung, a sharp tug inside his chest, and John felt suddenly sick to his stomach. Unceremoniously he dropped to his knees and retched into the open toilet, blaming the tears that flowed down his face on the heaving.

John didn't even know where to start a conversation like that. Obviously Sherlock hadn't quit the habit at all, and John had nothing to go on, no way to rationalize or compare any type of behavior. The man was eccentric and boisterous and frighteningly focused all of the time! If John hadn't found the cocaine, would he have gone this whole relationship with the infamous Sherlock Holmes never knowing that the man was constantly using? Should he go around checking the man's pupil dilation, body temperature, heart rate and blood pressure consistently and at random intervals?

"I'm clean," he had said, but the needle, as clean as it looked, and the bottle sitting next to it... That was clearly proof that he wasn't. And he  _dared_  to berate John about his trust issues.

The man was brilliant, a genius, part bloody scientist for Christ's sake, surely he knew of healthier ways to stimulate dopamine! Surely he knew the dangers of sustaining in recreational substances like this one,  _especially_  this one!

So how could Sherlock possibly see the need for it?

Even John, who knew something was wrong with him for being so attracted to danger and adrenaline and everything that came with being thrown into Sherlock's world after spending so long in a warzone, even he didn't understand what so called high was worth the possibility of ending up alone and dead in an empty flat or stark emergency room.

John could almost see a small nod of encouragement from the Sherlock in his mind, pushing his thoughts in the right direction.

He didn't understand, obviously, because he'd never experienced it. John had always been aware of his health and risks he wasn't willing to take, the part of him that always wanted to be a doctor and then finally  _the_  Doctor John Watson that was so prominent inside him—he'd never taken a drug in his life. He barely drank.

And with that fleeting thought, with trembling hands and with utter abandonment of principles he'd held dear to him all his life—John made a most rash and stupid decision—because damn it! What was so great about the syringe and the bottled, powdered benzoylmethylecgonine—what fucking high was worth Sherlock casting aside John's safety, and, more importantly his  _own_ body's health to achieve?

It took him three tries to open the first aid kit in the cabinet under the sink, but once he had the rubber band, only one quick flick of his wrists and fingers to secure the tourniquet just so around his left bicep. He removed the plastic casing around the needle tip and plunged the air out of it, his breathing hard, but steady.

Briefly, as he was dissolving the powder with water straight from the tap directly in the chamber, he wondered if this was how Sherlock did it: quick and gritty.

But if he stopped to think his nerve would leave him. And suddenly, as he flawlessly found the vein and released the tourniquet and slowly pressed the plunger down, John felt the rush hit him like a punch in the gut—he felt hot all over, flushed and full and positively vibrating—his thoughts strayed to Mycroft's warnings, about bravery being the nicest form of stupid.

And fuck, he could feel the effects of the drug already, instantly, it coursed through his system in thudding, clarifying heart beats—never would a rush of adrenaline feel quite the same because _nothing_  would ever compare to his feeling, this euphoria, and all John could do was laugh, not even sure why or when the tears started—because he'd so completely misunderstood Sherlock. The question wasn't how the man had started or if he never stopped, but  _why he ever stopped._


	2. Chamomile and Benzoylmethylecgonine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your interest and encouragement in this! The response was fantastic and I hope you all like this. At the very least there is another chapter or two after this. I just have to decide on whether or not I want to continue the case or not (it would be relevant to the story, of course.) Warnings: drugs and drug use, profanity, angst.

His body lay slumped, cold, and unmoving. Sherlock watched the corpse, detached, his eyes tracing the contours of the arms and legs as they settled, splayed and twisted, in what appeared to be a last ditch attempt to remain curled around himself while leaning hard against the wall.

Male, early thirties.

The skin that was visible was cruddy, plastered in dirt, and underneath, what was once the fading of a summer tan was now pale with death. His clothes were also dirty,  _('Layered, mismatched, different textures and sizes, all probably second hand or swiped.')_ wrinkled and worn and hard with grime. Tucked into the dead end alley as he was, Sherlock would be remiss to say that the dumpsters were the only things that smelled.

His hair was long, as haphazardly dreaded as his unshaven, unkempt beard.  _('Full head of it, swimming with lice and dandruff, often scratched at, but the scalp isn't as littered in scratches and scabs as it would be if he had a nervous disposition.')_

So, homeless, obviously.  _('Years, and at least a few weeks since he last washed.')_  Even over the stench of death and trash the man positively reeked of alcohol—the cheap, boxed or jugged wine kind of liquor.  _('Probably preferred to ask for pints and change and sleep outside than waste the time and chances to sheltered cots.')_

Now, homeless drunks on the streets of London were not news at all. Had the man's face not been paralyzed by a mortar of fear, Sherlock would have wondered why Lestrade would have bothered to call him in the first place.  _('His fingertips are orange; his nails bloody and cracked from how fervently he must have clawed at the brick.')_

 __What could possibly scare a grown man in such a manner, homeless and as hardened to life on the streets?

"Any time you feel like spouting off your... deductions would be most welcome," Lestrade volunteered. He seemed put out that Sherlock wasn't sharing, having extracted his pen and notebook like any good DI should.

But John wasn't there to witness and smile in his genuinely amazed way. Sherlock failed to see the point of making sweeping deductions aloud if John wasn't there to incessantly prattle on with whispered exclamations of praise.

"This is the fourth one, Holmes," Lestrade muttered.

"You declined to mention there were others," Sherlock spat, voice sharp and seething, rounding on the detective with a disregard for personal space. "How many? Why you didn't think to call me earlier when there could be a serial murderer prowling the streets—it doesn't matter, I'm sure you mistakenly thought you could solve this without my help."

"I called for you insight, not your petulance!" The DI barked back. "We didn't find the others. Homeless drunks and prostitutes turn up all the time, Holmes, dead on drugs and exposure and fights. No one thought to investigate if there was connection between all four deaths until I stumbled across the open case files and realized it could be murder."

"Oi, freak! Who let you in without the good ol' doctor to keep you in check?"

Sherlock didn't dignify Donovan's interruption with a reply or a glance, his mind processing Lestrade's new information. He resisted the urge to text John about the crime scene, their new case, for the seventh time. Distractedly, his hand grazed the patch of where his phone lay in his pocket, but it had not vibrated with a response.

For whatever reason, John was  _ignoring_  him.

"Yes, right. Sherlock?" That was Lestrade again, peevishness turning his voice sour. Sherlock made a dismissive sound in his throat, eyes narrowing as he continued to study the body. He suspected that this was the point that the DI would tell him to piss off so Anderson could finish processing the crime scene, and since John wasn't there to assist him and protect what evidence would surely be destroyed by that imbecile, Sherlock had precious few seconds to—

"Flowers, I think," in a rush of blubbering awkwardness and no finesse. Sherlock blinked, his only outward sign of surprise. He glanced at Lestrade, an insult ready on his tongue, but the inspector talked right over him, eager to get his bit out. "Whatever you did to screw things up this time, Holmes—fix it. He's much better company than you are at these things and so help me I'll make sure Anderson is here  _every time_  the doctor isn't to give you something to properly sulk about! Speaking of which, you've two minutes before he gets here, so tell me what you've found and  _piss off._ "

—

Later, as Sherlock made his way down the crowded streets of London, it was not hard  _('at all')_ to keep his thoughts from straying from John. He busied himself with case, conducting efficient sweeps of his usual spots, talking rapidly to the people he knew on the streets that served as his eyes and ears surrounding London. He paid them generously for their information, making sure they would keep a look out and report back to him with what they knew and could find out.

John would probably tell them to keep low and be careful, but the bloody fool wasn't there so Sherlock did it in his place.

As twilight befell his city of choice, Sherlock found himself along the main streets again, walking amongst closing little shops. He was watching people go about their dull, transient little lives when Sherlock began cataloging all the things that would make John ignore his texts. He didn't think of a single thing that he did wrong.

There were no new experiments lying about that John could possibly trip over or get annoyed at—he even washed the kettle, and the new head was safely hidden in a cake box so John wouldn't see it first thing every morning.

Well, there were drying strips of flesh hanging in the shower, but that was pig skin, surely John would be able to tell the difference if he stumbled across it—and Sherlock had his showering patterns memorized and he left it there knowing it was highly unlikely to be found before the experiment could be finished.

Today wasn't any sort of meaningful day by, not even by… normal people's standards.

He was not supposed to be working today.

He was  _fairly_ certain John hadn't asked him to do the shopping.

"Fancy a bouquet of flowers to take home to your pretty little lady?"

Sherlock glanced at the old woman steadfastly arranging the flowers on display outside her quaint little shop  _('Owned with her husband, recently passed, struggling to not fold under the weight of the rent and the bills and the arthritis attacking her hands.')_ He was about to keep walking, not spare her another thought, when he saw the flowers she was handling.

The woman had decided to put out chamomile for display  _('Her hands shake too much to dethorn the roses and prune the hydrangeas.')_ and Sherlock caught himself between a frown and begrudging acquiesce.

Lestrade was an idiot. He wouldn't notice the filched notebook with what little details he bothered to scribble about the connected cases until much later, and by then it would be read and memorized and of no use to Sherlock. So, really, what place did someone like Sherlock have to listen to anything the man offered up as advice?

Yet, as appallingly domestically  _guile_  as it sounded to be buying flowers for John Watson, Sherlock found himself handing over the necessary quid to purchase the fragrant chamomile. Sherlock could list off its medicinal properties  _('most common being the specific method in which it was distilled into oil, not only used in aromatherapy but as an anti-inflammatory agent as well')_ but what made his eyes crinkle in a smile was chamomile's fame and popularity in its regular use as  _tea_.

Much more  _John_ than a bouquet of roses.

Assuring himself he could find some use for it if he changed his mind, or just bin it on the way home, Sherlock made his way back to 221B Baker Street.

—

"Oh, Sherlock. I thought you were already in." Mrs. Hudson greeted him at the foot of the stairs what would have finally taken him up to the flat. He tried not to let the annoyance show on his face—obviously he wasn't in already if she'd just seen him walk through the front door.

He made a noncommittal sound and began climbing the seventeen steps. "There was such a racket upstairs I thought you were up to your usual experiments. Tadpoles in the tub or some nonsense like that. Oh, you brought flowers, how nice! I'll bring you boys some tea, then, I'm sure you'll want to relax."

Sherlock frowned, wondering, and responded with a curt yes.

He breezed into the living room, his eyes taking in everything in a few seconds.

Something was wrong.

Experimentally, he shouted, "John! We have a case!" but was not surprised with the lack of response.

He tossed the flowers onto the couch, stepping over an upturned pile of books into the kitchen. A broken tea cup was on the floor. Blood on a rag used to mop it up, abandoned. The sink also had blood in it and bits of china. He could hear the sink running in the bathroom and he could feel the coat billowing behind him in his haste to find John.

Something was  _wrong_.

"John!"

Not in the bathroom.

" _John!_ "

He slammed the door open and found John on the floor by his bed.  _('Erratic breathing, eyes scrunched shut, hands cut, rumpled—flashback? Panic attack?')_

Sherlock wasted no time dropping next to him, feeling his pulse, checking for injuries—he shouted his name and slapped his face to get a response, any response.

Sherlock's heart beat so loudly in his ears. It was suddenly so difficult to detach himself, and he found he was never more abhorrent of his emotions then he was of them now. Caring for someone didn't stop them from dying in his arms—facts and logic and finding a solution to the problem did!

He heard Mrs. Hudson with the tea. "I need an ambulance!"

John's eyes fluttered—such beautiful sandy brown eyes, bloodshot, dilated—open just as Sherlock noticed the pinpricks on his arms, running neatly along his veins and he felt himself slip into shock. " _What did you do?_ "

But he knew. The facts were there, leaving a single theory.

"Sherlock—what's going—?"

"—an  _ambulance_  you idiot woman!  _Ring for an ambulance!_ "

"John," and the needle on the floor made sense, and the racket and the mess and the bottle and running water, and no cold logic could explain why he felt as though his heart and body felt were physically  _crumbling_.

—

C17H21NO4.

Benzoylmethylecgonine.

 _Cocaine._

John's hands only slightly trembled as he brought the illicit substance to a vein and pressed the needle in.

It stung, but in a small way. He was careful, even now.

He could feel his eyes roll just a bit, as his heart frantically pumped the substance through a maze of capillaries and arteries.

The human heart pumps more than five liters of blood per minute. He counted the seconds, but couldn't keep up with the sudden surge of dopamine trapping itself in the synapses of his brain.

He wanted to laugh just then, so he did.

He was a doctor—a bloody good fucking doctor—shooting up in the kitchen he couldn't remember being in, like a junkie.

Like Sherlock—brilliant consulting detective Sherlock Holmes who had the nerve to call John an idiot when he was a bloody overqualified army doctor, not some junkie who lied to his lover as easily as he lied to the world.

—and there was blood on his hands and the sounds of gunfire in his ears and smoke and screaming, he couldn't breathe and the Afghan sun was too bright, every shimmer was a scope and he was going to die— _please God let me live!_

His cheeks were wet and stinging.

" _John!_ "

Another sting and John opened his eyes as Sherlock's face materialized out of desert sand, a beautiful, deadly mirage.

" _What did you do?_ "

His voice was strange, face more panicked than John had ever seen it, with eyes were impossibly wide. And he was touching him everywhere with those slender fingers that felt so good and John, so angry, so hurt, couldn't help but try to reach out to Sherlock over the fog in his brain.

But the world was so slow and the uneasiness stilled his hand that so badly wanted to touch that wonderful face again. He wasn't fast enough, and already it was turning and shouting, and John figured if he could just take another hit he could just float above the cloud and catch up with the world, anything to avoid dealing with the—with this feeling of sagging and sinking that was overriding everything— _anything_  to be the focal point of Sherlock's attention again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is inspirational. Constructive criticism is also appreciated. :]


	3. Protect Me From What I Want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no beta or a clue on how to get one, so please excuse the errors. Mentions of drugs and drug abuse, profanity, some Mystrade if you squint.

 

He was aware of the uncomfortable hospital chair underneath him and the white washed walls of the single patient hospital room in a way only a Holmes could be aware of, as unconscious of it as he could be. The steady beep of the monitors echoed in the quiet, and soon they, too, faded to the background, noticed and unnoticed all at once.

 

As practiced as Sherlock was to blocking out the world, it was a learned and honed behavior that was not always successful. Things still broke his concentration—conversations, so simpleminded and stupid, Anderson being…Anderson. The real world often intruded upon his self imposed isolation, deep inside the rapid fire thoughts of his mind.

 

But right now his mind was still. Right now he was as focused on a particular real world imperative detail as he would be on a whole case.

 

Breathing.

 

Once he had told John it was boring, and he had meant it then, but his eyes were fixed on John’s chest, rapt on the slight rise and fall of it, on straining his ears to catch the gasp of his breath.

 

He literally ached to crawl underneath the covers, to huddle so close he could feel the ghost of the breath on his skin, warm and alive and tickling his hair. He would press his whole body atop John’s to be certain, to be as wrapped in the man as he could, move with his chest and breathe with his breath and let his heart beat with his heart.

 

But Sherlock’s back was rigid, his whole body so tense it almost vibrated, his jaw locked so tight his molars might shatter.

 

An outsider would call it an improvement. On the ride over, Sherlock had yelled so vehemently at the EMTs once John was ambulatory—they were taking _so long_ in figuring out what was wrong with John—they should be fired for their incompetence; anyone who watched a bit of television could tell this was a _drug overdose_ —yelled so hysterically that his face had purpled and spittle had flown. When John finally arrived and he’d started convulsing, Sherlock had to be restrained after he’d slammed an unsuspecting nurse against the wall and demanded that she stop thinking about the boyfriend (who had recently proposed to hide the fact that he was cheating on her) and hurry up and do something.

 

The ER doctor had fared no better, and the only reason he wasn’t bodily thrown out was because of Mycroft’s predictable timing.

 

But Sherlock was never one for restraint, whether or not his brother was involved (sometimes especially) and these weren’t the reasons for why Sherlock stayed seated, kept his distance.

 

John was here because of him.

 

Sherlock cared; he was afraid, in ways he didn’t think possible. The way his body refused to remain detached from his emotions was in every way his stomach felt like an endless pit, as if his heart had dropped into it, was falling and falling. The sheer nervousness of it all paralyzed him as strongly as surely as the urge was to pace, to scream.

 

 _‘…tachycardia—not a heart attack, but…went into seizure…’_

 

He never would have expected this behavior from John. Ironically enough, this was one of the things Sherlock loved about the man: his ability to surprise him.

 

But—John was a doctor who drank but didn’t get drunk, didn’t even smoke cigarettes. How could someone so… _good_ go from _that_ to cocaine? Especially with a sister already saddled as an alcoholic.

 

 _‘…overdose…waiting on…kidney, even brain…some bleeding…’_

 

Sherlock tried to imagine, really tried to imagine what John had been doing in their flat. Was he deliberately looking? Did he suspect that Sherlock had never stopped, not really?

 

The feeling of falling slowly dissolved to coils, snakes in his stomach, writhing knots. No, John trusted him. For whatever reason, whatever misplaced hero worship and loyalty John felt, he trusted Sherlock, the liar, the cheater, the thief, the amoral (at best) sociopath.

 

“Idiot,” Sherlock said, and the noise, the voices of his brother and doctor, the smell of the hospital rushed back, and Sherlock was finally able to move, to shift, lean forward toward John’s prone frame, his eyes frantic and wild.

 

“We never talked about it,” his voice was a barely concealed sob—placating, defensive. Would he have confessed if they had?

 

“I tried.” As if that would make it better.

 

“I _needed_ it.” That might have made it worse.

 

Sherlock clicked his mouth shut and pressed his forehead to the bed, just shy of touching John’s hand. It felt wrong, somehow, to touch him now without his consent, after what John must view as a betrayal.

 

“Why did you take it? Why would you…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, lost in the sheet. He didn’t quite know what to say.

 

“To get back at me?”

 

Then, softly: “I’m sorry.”

 

~*~

 

Mycroft was a busy man. A lot of people assumed so, as he tended to dress like someone of importance. Impeccable, expensive, untouchable. More often than not, three piece suits and an exuberant amount of ties. Leather shoes, locked briefcase.

 

 _‘Wealthy businessmen.’_ Most people thought. How stupid.

 

When, if ever, he dared to correct them by stating he in fact occupied a small, unnoticeable, unnamed position as a civil servant, other people nodded. _‘I knew it,’_ they’d proclaim. How dull.

 

The fact that his small, unnoticeable, unnamed position as a civil servant helped practically (mostly) run the (entirety of) British government was on a purely need to know basis.

 

(Very few people were on that list. How cliché.)

 

And as if the safety of the commonwealth was not enough on his plate, Mycroft Holmes had the unfortunate circumstance of being of relation to the world’s only consulting detective.

 

Though perhaps it was the other way around. Perhaps one could say that Mycroft was so adept at picking up after a government like it was his own wayward child was because he grew up with Sherlock—and Britain was not as smart, nor as spoiled as Sherlock.

 

Who, at this very moment, was literally twitching and looking like he would crawl into bed with his lover at any moment.

 

The need to rub his temples was a great one. With practiced ease, Mycroft hid the minute twitch of his fingers in the flipping of the page of John Watson’s medical chart. The doctor whose care he was under was due back to continue their little chat about the likelihood of developing a drug addiction after a near fatal overdose (but he wouldn’t be, if Anthea was any good, which, oh, she _was_ ) and Mycroft needed this chance to steel himself for what he knew was going to be a very difficult confrontation with his brother.

 

He neatly placed the chart back in its cubby and used his umbrella to push open the door.

 

“Sherlock,” he called, and his voice was loud in the room though it was an octave above a whisper, but with the look Sherlock gave him he may as well have shouted.

 

“Get out!” he snarled. There was a haunted look in Sherlock’s eyes, in the way he held himself, hunched and vulnerable.

 

It gave Mycroft a start, must have reminded him of all sorts of unpleasantness, because suddenly Sherlock was all naked sallow skin, sickly, with protruding ribs and cheek bones, the track marks in his skin all but invisible, careful. Suddenly Sherlock was reckless and selfish, taking hits after hits, with no other outlet for his genius except on trying not to kill himself in his own flat. Suddenly Sherlock was wasting away all over again, his addiction quite literally sucking him dry.

 

Mycroft blinked and the images faded, but the bitterness of memory remained, the lump of a heart in his throat. He let out a long suffering sigh and composed himself. Like the practiced diplomat that he was, he ignored the outburst and closed the door behind him, leaned against his umbrella, doing his best to feel as if the weight of the world was lessened. It wasn’t, but he carried on anyway, trying to be tactful.

 

“If you’d take a minute,” —he ignored Sherlock’s immediate _‘no,’_ —“I’m simply here to inform you that the doctor’s are not concerned about John’s recovery. He’ll be fine, Sherlock.”

 

“He should have woken up twenty-nine seconds ago.”

 

Mycroft remembered the chart, what the doctor had warned about, and barely glanced at the prone man on the bed. “You’re off by a few minutes, little brother.” He bit his tongue before he corrected his brother further. Of course he wouldn’t remember to factor in that his cocaine was a rather strong solution, nor the probability of John eating earlier (low, Mycroft would gamble that he didn’t) because, and wasn’t it obvious: sentiment was cloudy to judgment.

 

Sherlock stopped fighting and turned all his attention back to John. Mycroft continued. “If he was brought in with it, John could very well face charges and lose his medical license.”

 

Clarifying what _‘it’_ was to his brother would be redundant.

 

Sherlock huffed at what he believed to be an empty threat, and Mycroft could not dance around the issue any longer. Like a rubber band pulled taut, his patience snapped. “He should.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft—”

 

“You _do not_ get to lecture me on the ridiculousness of behavior, Sherlock! If you do not give it to me, records will read that he came in with it, _illegally!_ At ninety-six pounds, I quarantined you to get that filth out of your system! I put your eyes in sight of detective work like you put the Yard’s nose on the scent of killers. I’ve bent the rules for you, to help you! To what ends, little brother? So you could _use_ between cases with none the wiser?”

 

“Mycroft—”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Mycroft insisted. “What good is Doctor John Watson to me, to you, if he cannot keep needles from puncturing his _own_ skin?”

 

“It’s my—”

 

“Do not dare make out _his_ idiocy to be your fault! When will cocaine stop being a postlude to excuses, Sherlock? For you, for anyone? _When?_ ” He felt drained, suddenly, the band was lax and raw as he breathed hard, struggling to calm himself.

 

But if he looked ruffled, mussed, Sherlock was doubly so.

 

“Please,” Sherlock’s voice was soft, pleading, very much the scolded child. “It’s flushed. You can check for yourself.”

 

There was fear in his eyes, and Mycroft wanted to give in to the sheer genuineness of it. It would be so much easier to concede now. How many times had he been taken in for that same look?

 

The beast that ravaged Sherlock’s heart and mind, no matter what anyone wanted to believe, did nothing but leave destruction in its wake. It enveloped everything around it, tainting, damaging.

 

Everyone fell prey to it, eventually.

 

 _‘Love.’_

 

And Mycroft knew he would not concede until he was completely certain that the love of a drug was completely overshadowed, utterly broken and beaten by the love of a Doctor John Watson.

 

Though nothing showed on his face, Sherlock seemed to understand the slight softening of his shoulders as acquiescence. He turned back to John as Mycroft quietly stepped from the room, wondering who he was fooling.

 

Anthea became his silent shadow as he managed not to trudge down the hallway to the waiting room.

 

No one stopped them or questioned their presence. Mycroft took this moment to send a few texts. (Now was not the time for phone calls.)

 

As expected, DI Lestrade was alternating between pacing and standing to fidget. The end of a nicotine patch was visible under his sleeves. Mycroft stopped in front of the obviously concerned detective. “Let me dispel any fears you might have, Gregory.”

 

Gregory combed his fingers through his graying hair, a habitual gesture. His downcast eyes and pursed lips shouted his internal conflict between relieved concern and disbelieving anger. “That would take a while, Mycroft.” he admitted.

 

“Then perhaps you’d care to sit over coffee in the hospital cafeteria?” At the DI’s nod, Mycroft began making his way there.

 

“When you rang me,” Lestrade said as they walked. “You could have at least warned me it was _John_ in here for drugs, not Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft’s face was grim, but he said nothing.

 

Two shadows.

 

He tried to revel in the feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world.

 

He picked a table and sat. A bit hesitantly, Gregory did as well, and within moments Anthea set tea in front of Mycroft and coffee in front of Lestrade. Neither men moved to touch the Styrofoam cups, and as Mycroft explained John’s rash, foolhardy decision, the steam escaped, filling the air between them.

 

“Christ,” Lestrade said at last, “I thought John was the smart one of the pair.” Mycroft made a noncommittal sound. Half of being a diplomat was, of course, knowing when to talk, and he knew now was the moment to let the detective come to his own conclusions. Another run of fingers through already tousled hair. “Did Sherlock…admit to it then? How long has he been on the shit again?”

 

“He didn’t say,” Mycroft was not about to confess that he did not let Sherlock get much of a word in edgewise.

 

“So for all you know he could have just had it lying around.”

 

“Tell me, Detective, in your history with the Yard, how many former—” and it did, _it did_ pain him to use the words—”drug addicts keep cocaine lying around without using it?”

 

He swore. “Where’d he keep it? We’ve looked, but…”

 

“My people are looking into it now.”

 

“I’m not keeping him on the cases, Mycroft.”

 

“That would be…unwise.”

 

“I told him it had to stop. I meant it. I still do. No more cases, not until I get a bloody negative drug screening. Supervised. Fuck, from both of them.”

 

“Normally I would be inclined to agree with you.” Mycroft tried to put it delicately. “But John, I’m afraid, can no longer be trusted to keep himself, or his wits, aligned with what my brother needs. Sherlock will need something to occupy his time while John is…indisposed.”

 

“Rehab? You think there’s a chance he might be addicted?” At the raised eyebrow, Gregory exclaimed, “Mycroft, you can’t just make John _disappear_.” The silence and Mycroft’s look must have reminded him that he, indeed, could, because he rushed on. “If it—I’d be obligated to launch a full investigation, you know.”

 

“I’m afraid that will not be necessary, Gregory. Or, if you must, I need not remind you of the unfortunate, albeit rare, occurrences where paperwork goes missing on the cluttered desks of overworked Detective Inspectors.”

 

Mycroft tried to smile to soothe the stricken expression, caused by the utmost seriousness of his words, but it seemed to have a somewhat opposite effect.

 

“Wait, wait! How do you know this won’t—help him? Sherlock’s changed since he’s met John, you can’t deny that. Maybe being on the outside of addiction he’ll realize it’s a shit idea, learn to empathize, maybe. A bit.”

 

 _‘Well. Now wouldn’t that be interesting.’_

 

It was rare that ordinary people—and it wasn’t necessarily that Gregory Lestrade was stupid, it was more that they all were—set ideas in motion that Mycroft hadn’t already been secretly cultivating. (Or maybe he had been, and Gregory just had the kindle and flame.)

 

Mycroft’s features set themselves to neutrality. He sighed, gave the impression of relenting. Smiled with barely feigned hopeful relief, and finally sipped a bit of tea.

 

And with that Gregory almost relaxed. He tried to make a joke of it, saying, “You’re just upset because he didn’t agree to spy on your brother. Remember I told you to sod off when you asked me to do the same, in case you can’t recall.”

 

“But that is why I like you, Gregory. Whether you realize it or not, you do tend to do what I want.”

 

Mycroft rose, but Gregory’s hand was a warm pressure on his arm. “They’ll get through this, Mycroft.” Mycroft found himself on the other end of eyes that were not extrapolating weaknesses or faking emotion. He nodded, pleased, warmed by the sincerity of it all.

 

“If you’ll excuse me, Gregory, I must attend to the matter of John’s release.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I've been gone for quite a bit. I'm so sorry! General lack of writing time and inspiration. I still can't say how long this will be or how long it'll take me to update, but your reviews have all been lovely and encouraging! Thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism greatly appreciated. :]


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